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. It was
just a little bigger than a sword would be. He snatched at it
with an agonized, inarticulate cry, dragging the case to him
as he fumbled for latches or locks. His fingers found one,
snapped it open, and emptied it out.
But it was already empty.
He blinked.
It was already empty.
He checked the inside of the box again.
It was still empty.
Empty.
Empty.
Someone moved through the camp behind him. The
goblin turned around, shivering but feeling no pain at all
from his wounds.
"Oh, gods!" cried the elf's muffled voice. His face was
white with shock, and he held a cloth to his nose and mouth
with his left hand to ward against the awful stench in the
air. "You're hurt! Don't move!"
The goblin dully dropped his gaze to the elf's right
hand, which held a gleaming, jewel-encrusted long sword,
point down, at his side.
The elf sheathed his sword in a scabbard that the goblin
did not recognize.
"I found the Sword of Change with one of the guards
by the horses," the elf said hastily, coming up to kneel and
check the goblin's injuries. "The man must have won it in a
dice game or something. The minotaur's just down the
slope. The slaves ran off into the hills
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